


Carte Blanche

by Helholden



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Past Abuse, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a lesson in fear, and you’re trying to teach Lydia Martin to not be so afraid. Post 4x08.</p><p>Written for a tumblr prompt — Pydia: Lydia isn't always by herself at the lake house, even if she didn't realize it at the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carte Blanche

**Author's Note:**

> _Carte blanche_ means "complete freedom to act as one wishes or thinks best." Accepting more prompts at my tumblr! demonscantgothere.tumblr.com, so don't be shy to send me some! I'm in a Pydia writing phase.

* * *

 

The problem with the lake house is it’s made of mountain ash. Top to bottom, the whole thing. Every board. Every door. Each step. Down to the last windowpane, it’s mountain ash. Normally, very few things inconvenience you, but this one does. Mountain ash is the werewolf equivalent of a vampire needing permission to enter a house, and while there’s no such thing as vampires, there is you. And you _are_ a werewolf.

 

You can’t enter the house without someone else paving a way first.

 

You’re content with that for now. After all, you want her to come to you, not the other way around. You don’t need her help. She needs yours.

 

You aren’t needy. You aren’t obsessed. You’re not watching her every moment you have a free pass to get away from your plans, standing in the shadows of the trees beside the lake house while she stares at walls and plays records and tries to make sense of the voices in her head.

 

You’re not.

 

You don’t see her now. She has left the room, and there are no lights to tell you where she went next inside of the house.

 

You wait for a few minutes. She’ll turn up again. You get restless when she isn’t back within five, and then when you realize she isn’t coming back, you feel the twitch at the corner of your mouth.

 

You leave.

 

You’re not obsessed, after all.

 

-

 

Lydia brews a pot of coffee to help keep her awake. There are light purple circles underneath her eyes, and her skin is paler than usual. She stirs in sugar, but she doesn’t use creamer. She turns her nose up at it. She doesn’t like the scent. Lydia stirs slowly, letting the motion lull her into a peaceful state of mind.

 

She slowly closes her eyes when she brings the mug to her lips, savoring the taste and the heat of the liquid. Her throat bobs, her head tilts back.

 

She brings the mug with her when she leaves the kitchen.

 

You follow her around the house back to the room with the record player. There aren’t any windows in that room, but you can see the doorway from here. She spends an hour in there, and when she emerges, she looks more lost than before. She lifts her eyes to the window.

 

Quickly, you back into the trees.

 

Lydia’s brow creases, though. She saw something. It was you, but she doesn’t know it. She just knows with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that something isn’t right. Slowly, Lydia approaches the window. Her eyes narrow as she looks through it. She places one hand flat against the cold glass, a warm fog outlining the heat of her hand. The mug shakes in her grip.

 

When she turns away from the window, she leaves it in a hurry.

 

You watch her go, enjoying the sight.

 

-

 

The problem with the lake house—

 

-

 

The problem with the lake house is no one is watching Lydia. She’s all by herself with assassins on the loose, and no one even bothers to check in on her.

 

This makes you irrationally angry.

 

Anyone could just walk right up to her house and break in and—

 

-

 

You would see them first.

 

You calm down because you know you’d be able to stop them. Unless they got into the house before you, in which case if there’s a barrier, you wouldn’t be able to follow. You imagine a possible scenario of taking one of them out. It’s two of your favorite things. Lydia, and killing. It brings a smile to your face.

 

You used to enjoy killing more, but now you’re not so sure.

 

Lydia stands in front of the window in her nightgown, gazing thoughtfully over the lake while she brushes her hair.

 

You’ve forgotten why you came out here tonight.

 

It wasn’t to watch Lydia Martin brush her hair.

 

You want her to come to you, but you don’t have the power of persuasion over her now that you aren’t dead. After all, Lydia’s a banshee, and that was the only reason you were able to call out to her from beyond the grave.

 

You can cross worlds to get into her head, but you can’t get her attention from the yard.

 

It’s frustrating, of course, how she is wasting her time like this when she should be coming to you, but you tell yourself this is to be expected. Lydia is nothing if not stubborn, and she will use you as a last resort.

 

She’s still afraid of you.

 

Fear is only useful for survival, and you aren’t going to kill her. You never intended to kill her. You’ve told her that already, but she still has a raised heart beat whenever you’re near her. It’s counterproductive. You remember it from the last time. She still fears you, but what does she fear?

 

Teeth? Claws? The bite?

 

Or is it the dreams?

 

You remember the dreams. It was a part of you, not all of you. The wrath came through to the surface too strong at first. You were angry, and rightfully so, after being killed like that all over again, fire consuming you whole. The fury exerted itself as the first part of your consciousness before you learned to control it, and Lydia’s first dreams were always of the lacrosse field, an extended version of the attack.

 

In reality all you did was bite her, and she fell.

 

In the dreams that came after, it was a chase. It was a chase, and she lost, and you bore her to the ground and climbed upon her while she screamed and screamed and screamed in silence no one could hear.

 

The dreams were not all you. They were her, too. In the dreams you never bit her. It was never about the bite. You came after her, and she was trapped. Those were the dreams. You never bit her. You threw her to the ground, and you mounted her. You exerted your control.

 

It was all about control.

 

She deals with the post-traumatic stress very well. Despite its lingering influence, it’s nearly gone by now. Her heart beat may rise, but she doesn’t shake anymore. She certainly doesn’t cry.

 

Lydia goes to bed, and you wonder what she’ll dream of tonight.

 

You want to enter her dreams, but you don’t have that power to anymore.

 

-

 

The problem with the lake house is you can’t enter without a clear opening. You grasp a branch and lean forward when the front door pulls inward, abandoning your position by the trees and approaching the house.

 

Lydia isn’t looking up as she sifts through her keys. When she finally looks up and sees you standing across from her, she gasps and drops the keys. They jingle when they hit the rocks, and she backs into the doorway, but she isn’t quite in the house. She trips over the steps and falls down as she grips the doorframe for support. Your intention wasn’t to scare her, but you like the way she looks when she’s scared. Her eyes become wild, her mouth falls open, and you bite your bottom lip.

 

You have a sway over her, but she has a sway over you, too.

 

You raise your eyebrows, cock your head to the right. You look down at her feet. She follows your eyes, looking down as well. She isn’t inside the door. Lydia had realized days ago that the lake house was made of mountain ash. It’s the reason why she backed towards the door, but she’s not fully inside the house and you’re just a few feet away.

 

“I don’t know why you’re so afraid of me,” you say. “I have no desire to hurt you, Lydia.”

 

You use her name because you know that humanizes you in her eyes.

 

She says nothing, but she doesn’t take her eyes off of you.

 

You slowly extend your hand to her.

 

You want her to take it. You want Lydia to admit she needs help, in more ways than one. You want her to stop being so damn terrified of you. It clouds her judgment, and there are more important things right now. Things she would see if she would only focus.

 

You don’t step forward. You don’t want to set the fear in her again. You want her to feel comfortable enough to let you in.

 

Lydia breathes heavily and stares at your hand for what feels like an eternity.

 

You give her the time. She needs the time.

 

Eventually, she pushes herself up. She doesn’t reach for your hand. She stands up straight, holding the doorframe instead of your hand. You bite the inside of your cheek and lower the offer. It didn’t quite work.

 

“I don’t know why you’re here,” Lydia says, “but go away.”

 

She turns around to go back inside, not trusting you, and you call out to her. It’s the only way to stop her. You have to say something.

 

“You’re wasting time,” you tell her. She stops, and you know you have your foot halfway in the door. “More people are going to die, Lydia, unless you can learn to trust me. We can _stop_ that, which is the whole point of all this, isn’t it?”

 

Lydia turns around. She is pursing her lips. “You only want your money back,” she says, crossing her arms.

 

“Of course I want my money back,” you say, wondering why this is even being brought up. You aren’t going to lie about it. “I get my money back, and everyone else gets to live. Can you see the negative fine print anywhere in that?”

 

Lydia looks down. Her lips shift uncertainly along with her feet, and she finally steps aside.

 

“Come in,” she says.

 

An open doorway, surrounded top, left, and right with mountain ash, but none at the bottom. You take one step forward slowly, and then another, until you are inside the house. Lydia closes the door behind you as you look around. Realizing you can’t get out without someone else opening the door, you are at another disadvantage.

 

You can’t leave without Lydia’s help, but you aren’t going to ask her to leave the door wide open either.

 

She leads you silently through the house, and you follow her footsteps. Lydia is wearing one of her flower print dresses, a white cardigan over her shoulders, but the hem of her dress comes up too high, exposing her thighs. You watch them as she walks ahead of you.

 

Lydia takes you to the room with the record player. Its white walls are all around you, clean and pristine. There are wine stains on the carpet. Lydia approaches the record player, but then she hesitates. She heads back to the door and closes it without meeting your curious gaze.

 

“In case my mother comes back,” she says without looking at you as she crosses the room. “I can’t explain to her why you’re here.”

 

“You can always say you’ve given up on teenage boys,” you say.

 

You’re messing with her, of course.

 

Lydia looks at you dubiously. “Yeah, and I’m still seventeen,” she shoots back. “My mother would call the cops.”

 

You can’t help the smirk. “Now, that only works if we’re intimate, sweetheart.”

 

Lydia rolls her eyes and turns her back on you. It’s the first time she’s done that. She doesn’t trust you enough to put her back to you, but this time she does. She’s more focused on the record player than you, and when she kneels in front of it, you remain standing a few feet away to watch the process unfold before you.

 

“It feels like I’ve been doing this for weeks,” she admits, though it doesn’t sound like she’s talking to you. Lydia is just letting out what is inside of her head, and you just happen to be nearby to hear it. “I can’t seem to hear anything but static. The voices are unclear, all jumbled together. The harder I focus, the less I hear.”

 

“Show me,” you say. Your fingers flex at your sides.

 

Lydia goes through the motions. She does what she’s always done up here, and as you watch her, you realize what the problem is immediately. You’ve had your suspicions, but now it’s confirmed with your own eyes. You let her be, though, giving her a chance to try on her own. When Lydia is unsuccessful yet again, you hear her sigh. It’s a soft, low sound of defeat and weary nerves. Delicate nerves that have been put to the test one too many times.

 

Lydia lowers her head. “I can’t . . . I can’t hear anything,” she says.

 

“It’s fear,” you suddenly tell her, coming up from behind. “You’re radiating with it.”

 

Lydia looks at you from the side, narrowing her eyes. “What?”

 

“Your mind needs to be a blank slate,” you go on. “Excess emotions overpower any ability, including those of my kind. Without clarity and focus, there’s no way to control it, and you’re brimming with fear. Fear for your friends, fear for people whose faces you don’t even know but whose names are on that list. Why, you’re practically thrumming with it, Lydia.”

 

“Fear is a natural—” she has a defensive voice. She’s trying to justify it.

 

“Yes, fear is natural,” you say, cutting her off, “but half of the time, it’s useless. It sends our minds into chaos and disorder, beckons a fight or flight response and shuts down our critical thinking. You don’t need _fear_ , Lydia. You need control.”

 

“I can’t just shut it _of_ —”

 

Before she can finish the final word, you grab her cardigan and dress by a fistful and yank her upright from the floor. You slam her into the nearest wall, and she gasps at the impact, her hands sprawling flat against the surface as you pin her to it with your body. Your right hand encircles the back of her throat and clamps tight, confining her movement. Your left hand holds one of her wrists against the wall.

 

Her heart beats hard, threatening to burst from her ribcage.

 

“What are you so afraid of, Lydia?” you whisper into her ear. It’s a lesson in fear, and you’re trying to teach her to not be so afraid. You’re only pinning her to the wall, after all. “What’s so terrifying about this, _hmm_?”

 

“ _Let go of me_ —” she hisses.

 

You pull her back just a few inches and shove her back into the wall for effect. A gasp escapes her mouth, and you circle your hand around the front of her throat. “ _Lydia_ ,” you whisper harder, through your teeth, “what are you so afraid of?”

 

You extend your claws, dragging one of them slowly along her hand. She begins to shake. You let go of her wrist, but she doesn’t move her hand.

 

Your claw touches her cheek, and she draws a sharp hiss inward.

 

“Lydia,” you whisper in her ear, softer this time. “What’s—so—terrifying?” You underscore each word, trying to get the message across to her.

 

She breathes in deep, shuddering breaths. Closes her eyes. In a few moments, she finds calm. Her breathing slows down, so does her heart rate. It beats through her back to your chest.

 

“Fear of what might happen,” Lydia murmurs so softly, opening her eyes once more. She breathes out against the wall. “ . . . But it hasn’t happened.”

 

You’re not ready to give up the game just yet. It’s a fun game. You like seeing her heart spike upward because of you.

 

You let go of her throat, though. You back away. You give her the space, turning around to walk to the other end of the room. It was a shitty move, and you know she’s going to hold it against you.

 

A blunt object hits you in the back, causing you to stumble.

 

You whirl around to see Lydia standing there as she glares at you. A speaker lies on the floor by your feet, one small enough to throw with a single hand, and you know Lydia wanted to hurt you with it. You stare at the fallen object for a long moment before meeting her eyes.

 

“I deserve that,” you finally say, shrugging your shoulders.

 

Lydia grabs another speaker, and you duck before she can hit you with it. As it crashes into the wall, you advance on her. Lydia tries to run, but you bear her to the ground. She wriggles upon the carpet until you get her pinned in place. It’s more satisfying than you care to admit, exerting your control over her, but your heart rate is racing, too, and the blood is pumping freely through your veins.

 

Her cheeks are flushed, eyes wide, but not with terror. The look catches you off guard, and you feel your features twisting with confusion. Your grip loosens.

 

Lydia pushes up to catch your lips with hers, even as her wrists are pinned to the floor by you. You forget yourself. You loosen your hold to kiss her back, a prickle shooting down your spine as she parts her lips and lets you into her mouth.

 

She bites your tongue, hard.

 

A stab of pain blinds you, and you’re off her. She scrambles to her feet, and when she has the advantage again, you find yourself kneeling on the floor with a sharp silver-tipped pole about two feet in length aimed right at your heart. You raise your arms slowly, but Lydia doesn’t pull back.

 

“If you try to do that again,” she warns, “I will not hesitate to use this on you.”

 

There is blood at the corner of your mouth. You lick it off. Her teeth went deep, but your tongue is already healing.

 

“You would’ve made an astounding werewolf, Lydia,” you say with a hint of pride. It’s a compliment, but she’s unlikely to take it that way. “Should we start over?” you suggest lightly.

 

Her face tightens in anger at your response, and you feel your upper lip twitch.

 

“You think I came here to _harm_ you? Really, Lydia? After all we’ve been through, you still don’t believe me?” You make a face at her, cocking your head to the left. “I’m hurt.”

 

“My friends will be here soon,” Lydia says, which is a lie because you know her friends haven’t been by to check on her in a week.

 

“No, they won’t,” you counter simply. “They haven’t come by to see you in eight days. Your name is on that list, too, and they haven’t even picked up the phone to call you and check in on you, have they?”

 

The rod in her hand trembles. She must be wondering how you know this. “How long have you been watching me?”

 

You squint just slightly as you give her a knowing look. “Long enough,” you say.

 

You leave your hands up. Eventually, she isn’t even looking at you anymore. The bar drops from her hands. It hits the carpet with barely a sound. You look down at it, wondering what your next move should be. The easily forgotten weapon is evidence enough that she doesn’t distrust you as much as she claims she does. A lift of your eyes, and you see Lydia turn aimlessly. She looks so lost. A moment later, she drifts towards the record player against the wall.

 

Carefully, you lower your arms. Placing your hands against the carpet, you push yourself back to your feet as Lydia kneels in front of the record player.

 

“You’re important, Lydia,” you say to her, using your most soothing voice. You don’t want to alarm her. “So very, very important, and you don’t even know it because no one tells you that, but it’s true.”

 

She doesn’t say anything, but you know she is listening, so you continue.

 

“They should be here, protecting you as much as they’re protecting themselves, but they’ve forgotten you here, haven’t they?” Each word brings you closer to her, and she seems to have forgotten her fear. She smells of vulnerability in her rush of despair. When you are close enough, you reach out to her and touch a careful hand to her shoulder. To your surprise, Lydia doesn’t flinch away.

 

“You shouldn’t be alone,” you tell her softly, the words a simple farce of sadness to harmonize with how she feels. You go a step further, caressing an index finger through her loose hair. “Even I know that.”

 

Lydia is silent for a long time. You fear momentarily that you’ve made a misstep or taken a wrong turn, but then her shoulders tremble with a soundless sob. She takes a deep breath, and then she takes another and another until she is still. Her deep breaths calm her, and Lydia lifts her head, not minding the hand you have placed upon her shoulder.

 

“You can stay, then,” she says, her tone curt and short, but you have your foot in the proverbial door, and it’s good enough for you. She’ll accept your offer for now because her friends haven’t been there for her, and you know somewhere in your scarred and blackened heart that your voice still has some power over her, however small.

 

You feel yourself smile at the small price for the knowledge.

 

“Let’s try again,” you say soothingly, removing your hand from the fabric of her cardigan, your fingers only inches away from her neck. Lydia looks over at her shoulder as your hand leaves it. Her eyes lower at the bare spot, reflecting a mild sense of loneliness. The feeling emanates off of her like a scent, and you step a little closer to her back. You can make use of that emotion.

 

You kneel behind her, leaning your mouth close to her ear, but this time you don’t touch her. She feels your presence, and it is enough.

 

“You have nothing to fear,” you whisper, and Lydia closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and follows the sound of your voice.

 

 


End file.
